


Never is an Absolute

by hyenateeth



Series: Gilding [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bullying, F/F, Genderswap, Homophobia, Pining, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 07:33:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyenateeth/pseuds/hyenateeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Really, in hindsight, it would have been much easier,if she had fallen in love with Jehan instead of Enjolras.</p>
<p>Grantaire had never done things the easy way though. Her first crush ended with a fistfight. <i>Of course</i> she never did things the easy way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never is an Absolute

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to Red Lips Staining Marble, sort of. Maybe companion piece is a more accurate description. 
> 
> Warnings in tags, plus mild warning for non-graphic violence and maybe a warning for brief discussion of depression but only sort of?
> 
> There will be more to this series in the future I suppose (cause I keep writing for it.)

Grantaire’s first kiss with her first crush ended with a bruise on her left shoulder and her entire class making fun of her, and that was just one of the things she would never tell Enjolras. 

There were a lot of things Grantaire would never tell Enjolras. It was not out of mistrust, so to say, or at least not specific mistrust, but there were many things Grantaire had never told anyone except Jehan, and that was only once, back when they lived together, and she had been quite drunk on some kind of sweet, flavored schnapps that Jehan had provided. And in her defense she was actually quite alright with Jehan knowing her secrets, because she had never looked on Grantaire with pity or horror. She had accepted her stories as fact, patted her on the knee sometimes as comfort, and listened. 

The story of Isabelle and Grantaire’s first kiss started out like a normal first kiss story would. _She decided to give me a makeover and I misinterpreted and went for it-_ And usually Grantaire would end there. If anyone ever pressed (because apparently first kiss stories were popular “girl” talk? Grantaire discovered that when she started getting female friends, or friends in general, and she didn’t really understand it but she complied), if they really wanted more, she would tell about the pushing back and laugh it off like a big joke.

She only ever told Jehan the full story, as they sat together in the flat they used to share, both on their small couch, bare legs touching, passing their bottle of schnapps back and forth. “She pushed me back,” Grantaire said after taking a swig from the bottle. “And gave me this look you know? Like... Like I had just puked on her instead of kissed her. Like I was the most disgusting thing she had ever seen. And I didn’t know what do. I was a stupid fucking kid. So I just kind of stared at her for a little bit, then I freaked out and ran. I just kinda... bolted. And I walked home.”

Jehan had nodded in a way that was probably meant to be serious except she had some rhinestone stickers in the shape of a flower on her cheek which looked sort of ridiculous and sort of adorable and absolutely ruined any stab at solemnity that she might give, but Grantaire was okay with that. Too much solemnity scared her and made it a little hard for her to breath, so Jehan had been a good fit for her as a roommate.

* * *

The rest of the story basically went like this:

Grantaire had gone home and gone straight to bed and when she got back to school everyone knew. Isabelle had told everyone and now Grantaire was a target. People laughed and pointed at her. Some people threw little balls of paper at her that didn’t hurt but got caught in her hair. Girls glared at her. Boys leered. One boy snapped the back of her bra and when she turned on him said “Whatcha gonna do about it dyke?” but she kicked him in the shin and he didn’t do it again. 

Isabelle wouldn’t even look her way. She wanted to talk to Isabelle, to apologize, but she didn’t know how to get her alone, to get her to talk to her. “ _Dyke_ ” became a new nickname of sorts. But it was alright. Grantaire could handle it. Or she thought she could. Then one day someone tripped her after school and everyone laughed, and she looked up, and Isabelle was laughing too, and that was the first time Isabelle had even acknowledged her in weeks and something in Grantaire snapped.

She scrambled to her feet and turned on Isabelle, ignoring even whoever it had tripped her. “Tell them you lied!” she shrieked. “Tell them you lied!”

Isabelle stopped laughing. So did everyone else. “I didn’t lie.” she said.

“You did!” shouted Grantaire. “You lied and told everyone I kissed you and I didn’t! Tell them the truth!”

“I didn’t lie!”

“You did!” There was manic desperation edging into her voice and of course Grantaire knew Isabelle hadn’t lied, but she didn’t care. “You did, you did! Tell them the truth!”

“I’m not a liar!” Isabelle’s voice had the same edge, and that made Grantaire a twisted kind of happy. “You kissed me, you lesbian freak!”

Grantaire set her teeth on edge. “Why...” she growled. “Why would I want to kiss an ugly twat like you?” She spat the last few words, angry with Isabelle and with her classmates and with herself.

“Dyke!” snapped Isabelle. “You’re disgusting!”

That was when Grantaire had jumped on Isabelle. She had never fought anyone before, and it was mostly a blur. Isabelle had long nails that cut into her cheek and pretty red hair that ended up pulled tight into Grantaire’s fist and they both punched each other and by the time an adult was pulling them apart Grantaire was bleeding from her cheek and her swollen lip and Isabelle’s black eye was already darkening. They were both crying.

Isabelle had probably been crying from pain.

That wasn’t why Grantaire was crying.

“That’s sort of the end of the story,” she told Jehan, accepting the bottle she was being handed. “Got in trouble obviously. With the school and stuff. And my parents. But no charges were pressed. So that was good. It probably helped that I didn’t stop crying even while we were being interrogated about how it had started. Which... neither of us mentioned the kissing thing. To any adults. I don’t know. I was still picked on some after that but it mostly calmed down. People got tired of it. Kids you know.”

Jehan nodded as Grantaire took a swig. Then she said, “So you got her good though?”

Grantaire had burst out with a laugh. “Oh yeah. The black eye didn’t go away for a while.” Then she shrugged and rolled on the couch slightly, stretching out her legs so they crossed over the length of the couch, including Jehan’s lap. “Whatever though. I’m not. I mean. It was kind of my fault. Partially. I shouldn’t have picked a fight with her like that.” She poked Jehan with a toe. “Don’t tell anyone this, Prouvaire.”

“I won’t.”

She poked her with a toe again.

“Don’t tell Enjolras.”

“Of course not dear.”

Another poke. 

“Our hangovers are going to suck tomorrow.”

“Definitely.”

They both had laughed. 

And that was why Jehan was the only one who knew that story. Jehan was the only one who knew a lot of her stories. Trust came easy with Jehan, as did affection. Even Grantaire, who was bad at non-sexual, physical affection, who fumbled with hand holding and casual caresses, and could never get a girl to hold her through the night, felt comfortable with Jehan’s pats and hugs. She had even been comfortable enough to ask to paint Jehan once, and she had painted her in shades of green.

It all came so easy with Jehan.

So she told Jehan a lot of stories like that one that night, and Jehan told her stories too, and they kept each other’s secrets. It was nice.

* * *

Really, in hindsight, it would have been much easier,if she had fallen in love with Jehan instead of Enjolras.

Grantaire had never done things the easy way though. Her first crush ended with a fistfight. _Of course_ she never did things the easy way.

* * *

“God,” Courfeyrac had complained once. “You are totally fucking in love with her but you don’t make an effort with her.”

Grantaire had snorted into her beer. “I’m here aren’t I?” 

“But it’s not like... I mean maybe if you just let her in she would like you, you know?”

And it was easy for Courfeyrac to say. Courfeyrac was _nice_. She had long wavy hair that somehow didn’t tangle that much, and a nice smile, and people liked her. It had always been easy for her to get dates and she and Jehan lived together now in a seemingly not platonic way, and Grantaire was not really sure what that meant because she hadn’t ever known Courfeyrac to like girls, but they definitely cuddled a lot, and Grantaire was definitely _not_ jealous of that fact, no matter how it seemed.

The point was, it was easy for Courfeyrac to say something like that. If Grantaire were to paint Courfeyrac she would paint her in silvers. Courfeyrac was shiny on the inside. 

Grantaire was not.

So it was probably better, she thought, if Enjolras never knew about her first crush, or her relationship with her parents or her brother, or what she painted, or why she drank. It would only make her disdain her more, or worse, pity her.

The distant pitying look that Enjolras gave her sometimes was always worse than the disdain. She at least deserved the disdain, even if she didn’t want it.

* * *

Still.

_Still._

* * *

It seemed wrong to even long for it really. Enjolras, Enjolras was a dread goddess. Enjolras was Artemis, the virgin huntress. Or perhaps Athena, wise and warlike. 

But Grantaire was no Orion, no Perseus. She was not fit to be mentioned in the same breath as them. 

Grantaire was a filthy fucking beggar woman in the streets of Athens, dreaming of a goddess who would never notice her.

But who didn’t want the love and blessings of their lord?

* * *

_Still._

* * *

So she wasn’t going to tell Enjolras all the stupid petty details of her life, big or small. Of course the did not shy away from talking to Enjolras, not exactly. But Enjolras liked talking about things like petitions and rallies and worker’s strikes, of rights and privileges and injustices. So that was what they talked about.

Perhaps talking was too strong a word. 

That was what they argued about. 

And argue they did. 

She could still remember the first time, at a meeting of their activism club, that Enjolras had used the term “social justice,” which was in turn the first time they had fought. It had been only a few meetings after Grantaire had initially joined, and just a bit after she met Enjolras. She could not remember the context, or much of the leading up, but she could remember the aftermath.

The thing was, when Enjolras said it Grantaire had laughed, a sharp, ugly sound, nearly a cough through the smoke of her cigarette.

Enjolras had turned on her immediately, hair falling in front of her eyes briefly only to be pushed back a second later. “Did you want something?”

The room had frozen. Grantaire had grinned. “Nothing, oh glorious leader. Carry on.”

Enjolras frowned impressively, pretty mouth twisting downwards. “We do want to keep the floor open for discussion _Grantaire_.” The _say something or shut up_ was implied.

Grantaire took a drag of her cigarette, before shrugging. “Well it’s just. ‘Social Justice.’ It’s a non-term. It’s impossible.”

Enjolras had bristled. “Impossible?”

“Well yeah. I mean. Justice doesn’t exist. It’s made up. A construct.”

The ensuing debate was a little legendary in their group, mainly because Lesgle had been absent that night and had demanded a full retelling a few days later, which had been provided, with a little color added. But while Enjolras had not actually kicked over any chairs, it had been a bit impressive. She could admittedly not remember a lot of specific argument threads, (she could recall bits - “You’re ignoring the subjectivity of justice-” “Subjectivity does not imply _absence-_ ” “How many _facts_ are subjective-”) but there was one thing that stood out in her memories.

Enjolras’ eyes. They had been passionate and burning and angry and Grantaire loved them. She wanted those fiery eyes to burn her up whole.

That night had been the first time she had realized she was in grave danger of falling in love with Enjolras. 

So they didn’t really talk a lot. They could only ever seem to argue. It was Isabelle all over again. Isabelle, and any relationship Grantaire had ever had outside of a one night stand: Mona, the girl she had lost her virginity to at age 18, Dani, her only real girlfriend. 

Grantaire was good at provoking, at angering. Especially when it came to women she liked. She could not seem to help it. 

Just more self destruction, she supposed.

* * *

She could not decide what color she would paint Enjolras in.

Maybe red, like fire and blood.

Maybe gold, like her hair and her soul.

She had never painted Enjolras, never even drawn her. She wanted to, oh how she wanted to. Her hands ached for it, to capture the woman on canvas or paper with the loving care that would put the greatest romantic to shame, and she would be lovely, her Artemis lovelier than any Venus of old.

But she was not _her_ Artemis. And sometimes romantic ideas were creepy in practice, inappropriate and invasive and more than a little stalker-ish. 

So Grantaire never so much as sketched Enjolras.

She thought about it though. 

That was something else Grantaire would never tell Enjolras.

* * *

“I mean,” Courfeyrac had insisted. “You seem convinced she won’t like you.”

Grantaire had downed her drink. “And why wouldn’t she?”

“You’re nice,” Courfeyrac had said immediately. “And smart and funny and-”

“ _And why would she care about any of that bullshit?_ ”

She said it with enough venom that Courfeyrac had stopped talking. Had she been in a better mood Grantaire would have been proud of shutting up the infamous Louise Courfeyrac.

She had not been in a good mood.

She got in moods sometimes. Jehan called it melancholy.

(“Ah Aurélie,” she would sigh. “Another melancholic mood?”)

Grantaire liked that word. She liked it a lot better than “ _depression,_ ” which seemed to be a big, scary concept, something permanent and clinical and ugly. Melancholy, that was a nicer word. Melancholy sounded prettier, gentler, temporary; it was a disposition like any other; it was a black bile that she maybe she could let from her body if she tried hard enough.

(Black bile seemed a pretty good way to describe her. Just. Overall.)

* * *

She was not all black bile though, she thought sometimes. She was more than just alcohol. Maybe.

She liked classic horror movies and chocolate and Manet paintings. She had a bad habit of cutting her own hair, drunk, at three in the morning. She had taken some fencing classes and some judo classes and was alright at both. She worked waitressing in her free time to keep her small flat. 

She was a person too.

Maybe. 

Sometimes.

But she would never tell Enjolras any of those things. 

Unless she asked.

* * *

Enjolras would never ask.

Or at least that is what Grantaire thought.

Then again, holding the cup of coffee Enjolras had got, her coffee order, with her real name written on the cup...

Well, she wasn’t so sure anymore.


End file.
